


Call and Response

by arbitraryspace



Category: Macross Frontier
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 18:39:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arbitraryspace/pseuds/arbitraryspace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder.  But absence is a relative term, don't you think?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call and Response

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rose Argent (roseargent)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseargent/gifts).



Sheryl had spent the last hour reviewing lighting charts while her stylist coaxed her hair into a lacquered, too-slick knot. She could understand, now, why her vain, haughty Alto had been content to wear wigs when he walked the stage as an onnagata. Kabuki-inspired styles weren't meant for hair still attached to a scalp. Her ears felt slimy and her temple was sore.

No matter. The holographic projections wouldn't look right unless she modeled a real outfit for motion-capture, and Sheryl had put up with too much pain over the course of her career to start accepting half-measures now. Computer-created costumes were for hacks.

An alarm blinked on Sheryl's data-pad. She set it down, and tried not to wince at the twist-pull that was her stylist securing his work. What was he doing back there, hanging five-pound weights? Ugh, she had better not need follicle regeneration treatments after this. Her gorgeous, all-natural hair had won her a healthy share of endorsements from cosmetics companies.

"Elmo!" Sheryl barked. "We film in three hours. Where's my dress?"

Elmo skittered in from the adjoining hallway, dodging piles of discarded clothing and loose exercise equipment. He didn't do a lot of managing, for someone who was nominally her manager. Sheryl felt that it was one of his most endearing qualities.

"Coming. Coming! The production assistant said it needed alterations."

"The production assistant said, did she?" Sheryl crossed her arms. "Get her in here." These Earth production people had been nothing but trouble since she'd landed. Their parent corporation had signed on as an advertiser with her tour, which meant that they thought they were qualified to have _ideas_ about her work. Sheryl ought to start her production company to avoid this nonsense. She made a mental note to bring it up with her lawyers next time they spoke.

Sheryl's stylist made himself one with the furnishings, while Elmo ushered a slick-looking young woman in for an audience. She was carrying an elaborate black kimono in her arms. Silver pins marked out the place where the kimono would hit Sheryl mid-thigh.

"Give that to me." Sheryl grabbed the garment away. She immediately started pulling pins out, careful not to catch them on the fine natural silk. "This is an expensive recreation of a kimono from a famous play. What do you think you're doing?"

The production assistant bit her bottom lip, all dewy lashes and exposed neck. That sort of thing probably worked pretty well on people who weren't Sheryl Nome. She'd perfected the puppy-eyed look at nine years old, when she was still flat as a board and begging for scraps. "The director thought maybe this would sell better to your demographic if you looked more modern, and-"

"That's not your call to make." Sheryl cut her off. "I made myself clear about how I wanted to choreograph this number. I'm reinventing an old Earth art-form in order to make a statement about role-playing and sensuality. This isn't only about selling concert tickets."

Of course, it would sell concert tickets anyway. Merchandise too. She _was_ Sheryl Nome. And she trusted that her audience would respond to a message with real emotion behind it. Perfect production values weren't enough, when any half-baked idol factory could set a marketer to mixing tracks and programming costumes. A true Galactic Songstress had to have soul.

"Elmo, call the director, and tell him that if he can't act like a professional and bring his concerns to me directly, I'll find someone who can."

"Right away, Sheryl!"

Elmo herded the production assistant away without further prompting.

Sheryl slipped her arms through the sleeves of the kimono, and struck a teasing pose in the mirror, imagining all the ways she could drape fabric to highlight the shape of her chest. This was going to be so perfect. A kabuki-style routine set in the ruins of Japan! Alto would throw a big blustery fit, and Ranka would be left quivering with jealousy that she hadn't thought of it first.

Sheryl couldn't wait. She didn't need to see their physical faces, to know that their reactions would be absolutely adorable.

 

***

 

The 19th Macross-class Colonial Fleet -- Macross Tianlong -- wasn't anything like the Frontier of Ranka's childhood. The info-sites said that Tianlong was modeled after an old human city called Hong Kong. Great glass residential towers stretched right from floor to ceiling, with narrow bands of 'outdoor' market-space wedged in-between, brighter and louder than anything Ranka'd seen in Frontier's old arena district. It all gave the effect of an odd sort of hive. The only concession to nature was a bay that covered half of the main island's surface area; apparently, Tianlong relied on aquaculture for most of its food and oxygen production.

Ranka chose to hold her press-conference on the deck of one of the few pleasure-boats permitted to roam Tianlong's glossy black waters. She was a celebrity now, after all, and the vast neon city made a wonderful backdrop for publicity shots.

"How does it feel to be back in front of the camera?" One of the reporters called, a bit louder than the rest of the mob.

The press had hounded Ranka and Sheryl ever since the Frontier made planetfall, and it was worse now that Ranka was off-planet, where paparazzi with retina-cameras and cochelar tracking implants were perfectly legal. Their electronics made her nervous and their flashbulbs burned her eyes. Ranka was glad of the chill ghosting up off the water, and of Brera's steady presence at her back. She didn't dare falter when she faced the press head-on. Sheryl would be so disappointed in her if she proved to be unworthy competition.

"I feel very thankful that Mr. Vhijayabas has chosen me to help develop in his new musical!" Ranka said. "When I was given the part of Mao Nome in Bird Human, I felt as though I were living a dream. Every second in front of the camera was like a fantasy come true. None of it seemed real until I saw myself on the big screen." She couldn't help smiling when she recalled it. "This time, I know that it's real, and I'm excited to learn more about the craft of acting. I hope I'll be able to share my excitement with all of you. Everyone, please treat me kindly in my first starring role!"

Ranka finished her statement with a quick little bow. She knew the gesture wasn't necessary, but it seemed like the right thing to do. She didn't want to take her fans for granted.

The group took a few nanoseconds to mull that over, like sharks ripping up a piece of chum, before the shouting started again. It was Ranka's misfortune to make eye contact with exactly the wrong correspondent.

"Ranka! Ranka! Are you seeing anyone right now?"

"Oh! Um, well-"

Now she couldn't pretend that she hadn't heard the question.

Brera narrowed his eyes, radiating his lack of amusement across several wireless frequencies.

"Ranka," he offered, because he really was very sweet, no matter what anyone else thought. Only Ranka didn't need his help just yet, so she raised a hand to forestall him.

"It's alright. Thank you, Brera," Ranka said. "I became a singer because I wanted to share my heart with everyone! I hope that when people listen to my songs, they can tell that it's the music of someone who's been in love."

"DECULTURE!!" One of the Zentradi at the back broke into a spontaneous cheer.

"But I have a very busy schedule, filming and touring." Ranka continued on without missing a beat. "I'm not home for most of the year. It would be hard for me to see someone in the way you mean."

It was a good answer, she knew. Her publicist had nodded approvingly from the sidelines. Yet Ranka didn't like the way that the half-truth tasted in her mouth. She knew that her friends and family could hardly watch every single interview she recorded, but they still might see this one, and she couldn't bear it if her important people thought--

"I'm sad or lonely, though! I'm free!" Ranka blurted, her hair rising with the force of her earnestness. "There was a time when I didn't understand love very much. I wanted so badly for people to hear my song, that I didn't think about listening to what they were trying to tell me. But when I played Mao Nome, and afterward, I realized that love is about giving strength to the ones you care for. Strength to chase what you want and be yourself. Strength enough to fly to the ends of the galaxy!" Oh dear, her cheeks were hot. "And I- I've been strong enough to come all this way and see you, haven't I? So I'm lucky, you see, because, uh-"

Ranka cast her brother-turned-bodyguard a pleading look, and Brera obligingly took hold of the microphone, his metal claws flashing in the lantern-light. He'd been more readily accepting of her situation than Ozma. Physical relationships seemed to bemuse him.

"Next question," Brera said flatly.

For once, the mob listened.

 

***

As far as Alto was concerned, there weren't many upsides to being a hero of the 25th Macross-class Colonial Fleet. The photo-ops were annoying, the gossip media was worse, agents wouldn't stop pestering him to license his life story, and now SMS was chock-full of rookies who had all sorts of dumb ideas about the things Skull Squadron and Pixie Squadron had accomplished during the war. Alto was sick and tired of dealing with kids straight out of flight school who didn't think that exploring the planetary coastlines was glamorous enough -- as though they weren't _lucky_ to make their first take-offs under a proper sky, without being shot at by a swarm of alien hostiles.

Not that it was all bad. Nothing Alto did in his plane made a damn bit of difference to his father, which was gratifying, in its own strange way. And the new President Glass had given him a very generous plot of mountainside land, while Mr. Bilrer made sure his name rose to the top of the construction priority list. Alto was on the deed to one of the very first functional private residences on Planet Shambhala, independent of Frontier's remaining infrastructure. The villa was different enough from his childhood home that he liked it very much.

Klan carried towards Alto house in her palm, since it was on her way from the SMS compound to the macronized Zentradi camp. Alto would be happy when they got a more stable transit system running. Klan was his friend, but having her drop him off on her way home from work lacked in dignity what it made up for in convenience.

"Think you can make it through the doorway, Princess?" Klan asked. "I could lift the roof up if you want."

"Klan." Alto wasn't going to dignify that with an answer. So he was a little exhausted. So what? Hmph. A week-long recon trip could do that to a man. Unlike certain other people, _he_ didn't smell like five tons of unwashed hippo-cow after spending six days packed into a Quedluun-Rau.

Klan rolled her eyes.

"Don't forget about Saturday. The rooks will be thrilled to see you there."

"Right." Alto snorted. "Are you going to let me down?"

Klan crouched so that Alto could crawl off of her sweaty glove and onto the hard-packed dirt. His legs protested at having to support his weight again, and his hair hung limply when he tried to flick it over his shoulder. Great.

"Saturday, then." Klan smirked, stood up, and stepped off before Alto could protest. That traitor.

Alto staggered into the house, shrugged out of his uniform, and flung himself into the shower. By the time the hot water ran out his hair had returned to a perfect blue gloss. Alto toweled himself off, put on a pair of loose cotton trousers, and found himself alone in his tastefully cavernous living room.

Sheryl's dirty clothes weren't littered all over the furniture, and the kitchen didn't smell like Ranka had been messing around with his stove again. Neither of them was meant to be back before the new year. The household net terminus flashed green-red-yellow, signaling that a number of off-world broadcast media packets had been downloaded in Alto's absence. He settled on a couch and flicked through the antics in the feeds until homesickness got the better of him.

This house was just too large. It was strange to find himself feeling that way, when he could never tire of infinite space or boundless sky; except maybe it wasn't so strange after all, because it wasn't like he didn't know what he was missing. It was stupid. He knew very well that attempting to be domestic for more than a few months at a time would drive them all stir-crazy.

Alto poured himself a glass of water and walked out onto the deck, letting the view calm him. The bright lights of the corporate enclaves grew organically out of the forest below. He thought of the wind rushing through his hair while the landscape blurred below him. Heat spread from the fold quartz in his earrings to the backs of his eyes and the tips of his fingers, the depths of his gut and the hollow around his heart. He found himself humming an aimless tune, quite unconsciously, and nearly dropped his drink when laughter bubbled up around him -- apologetic giggling, coupled with a fondly mocking cackle. Soon the sound resolved into a playful sort of song, keeping time with the pace of his heartbeat.

Home was never far away when you had the right attitude about it.

Alto stared off into the horizon, while his consciousness soared out into the stars.


End file.
